


Aftermath

by little_princes_sheep



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Autistic Character, Canon Trans Character, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attack, Prison, Swearing, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 17:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14242740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_princes_sheep/pseuds/little_princes_sheep
Summary: Leon and Carla have Elliot's back.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as platonic or romantic, I just love these characters' interactions!

The mechanical whirr of the dryer was mesmerising. Elliot felt himself becoming hypnotised by the consistent clunking of the machine, wide eyes focused intensely on the burst of colours swirling inside. The Adderall was slowly, painfully draining out of his system. All of the sharp sensations and emotions that he’d been enjoying had flushed out of his world, dulling and dying into the flat colourless experience that was imprisonment.

He was sure that the other inmates were aware of the cause of his sudden flatline, but he just didn’t have the energy to care. Zeroing in entirely on the constant hum and whirl of the dryer was all that he had to distract him from the tremors wracking every muscle in his body and the aching, twisting sensation in his gut. Each breath caught harshly in his lungs, rushing in and out and in again. His heart was thumping rapidly in his chest, pushing and straining within the confines of his ribs, peeking through the gaps for some relief. He could feel the hummingbird-like thrum of his pulse beneath his jaw. The panic rising within him, threatening to surface. The dryer came to a shuddering stop. It could alleviate his pain no longer.

The panic was coming. It was bubbling and festering inside of him, pressing against his skull. It was becoming irrepressible, inescapable. He needed to leave. He needed to be alone. He couldn’t let this happen here — not surrounded by criminals, men who snuff out any sign of weakness they can find.

This realisation jolted him forwards. Elliot’s legs shook as they carried him towards the cage in the back. It was a good hiding spot — something he’d learned from Hot Carla a few days into serving his sentence. He remembered meeting her there for the first time, the way she had punched him right in the nose. He wondered if she had felt like he felt now — helpless, scared, alone.

It was musty and dark, shelves piled high with grey linen. As though in relief, Elliot dropped himself into the corner of the room, knees tucked in tight to his chin. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine himself in his apartment. He could imagine Qwerty in his container, circling and circling, tail brushing the edges of his little box. He could almost hear Flipper shuffling around on the floor, curling up on his mattress among the old sheets. 

A renewed pang of loneliness shot through him, rushing the first throat-ripping sob from his chest. Curled up tightly against the corner, Elliot shut his eyes and let the panic take hold of him. All he could feel was the burn of air in his throat and the salty taste of tears on his lips. It took over his entire body, sending all-encompassing shudders to rupture any sense of control he ever had.

The force of his sobs gave way to nausea. The stomach-twisting cramps returned with a vengeance. Elliot wasn’t unfamiliar with the effects of drug withdrawal, but that didn’t lessen the horror he felt when sour wet bile pooled on his tongue. He gagged violently, using all of his diminishing strength to tip himself to one side and vomit a puddle onto the floor of the room. His stomach was practically empty already, and so the gags gave way to dry heaves. Shivering, he pressed himself harder into the corner, unable to move any further. More tears surfaced, fuelled by shame and disgust. 

 

* * *

 

Hot Carla was having a shitty day. Santos and his crew of dickheads were on her trail. They didn’t dare to go near her — not after the circulation of those STI rumours — but their catcalls and leering gazes were getting on her nerves. Every time she saw Santos’ ugly sneering face, it was a painful reminder of what happened to her poor Reynaldo.

In a place like this, you learn to be stealthy, and so she stole into her usual hiding place behind the laundry room. Upon entry, it felt as though her nostrils had been assaulted with acid. Before she could recoil with disgust, her eyes landed on a small figure in the corner of the room.

Her breath stuttered when she saw Elliot. She knew that he’d been taking something — it was blatant in his odd, uncharacteristically loud behaviour these past few days — but she didn’t know what it was or why he thought he needed it. Seeing him pressed against the cage wall, worryingly pale forehead resting on his knees, broke her heart. She knew that he found it next to impossible to let others in, but she wished that he could have let her and Leon help him before it had gotten to this stage.

“Elliot,” she said, crouching down beside him and carefully avoiding the small puddle of puke. “Elliot, look at me.” Her hand reached out to touch his cheek. He flinched violently, hitting his head back against the rattling cage wall. Carla regretfully hissed under her breath.

_“Shit.”_

“Carla?” Elliot lifted his head, wandering, glazed eyes falling on her. She was close enough to see that his pupils were blown, pushed to the furthest reaches of his iris. He seemed to be delirious through the haze of withdrawal symptoms. 

“You should be in bed, you look like shit.” She tried to inject some humour into her voice, but the attempt faltered at the wet trails running down his cheeks. His head dropped back onto his knees with a resigned thunk. 

Carla sat back on her heels, eyeing his dazed expression and frantically thinking through the situation they’d found themselves in. The two of them wouldn’t be able to make it to his cell without raising suspicion among the other prisoners, and there was no way Elliot could go to the infirmary when his system was flushing out whatever ridiculous substance he’d pumped himself full of. She needed help. She needed Leon.

 

* * *

 

She found Leon in the library. He was lounging on the cheap plastic chairs, enjoying his daily intake of Seinfeld. It was difficult to pull him away at first, but the moment he heard Elliot’s name he was all ears. 

“He’s run out of whatever he’s been taking, and it’s taking a toll on him,” Carla said. “I found him in one of the storage rooms. He’s out of it.” She didn’t miss the way Leon’s face flooded with guilt at her words. He ran a hand through his hair, head bowed in thought. “We need to get him to his cell.” 

Leon nodded, eyes averted. For once, he didn’t seem to have much to say, as though he’d been cowed by this whole ordeal. He stayed close on Carla’s heels the entire trip down the hall until she whirled around to face him outside the laundry room.

“I’ll cause a distraction. Once you hear lots of noise, that’s your cue to get him.”

“You got it,” Leon said, smirking in a strained attempt to seem more like himself. Carla gave him a final warning glance before she turned quickly and disappeared around the corner. Leon waited, rocking back and forth where he stood until he heard a distant commotion that quickly grew aggressive and loud. Eager for some semblance of excitement, the prisoners in the laundry room leapt at the opportunity to leave their work, crowding into the corridor and out of Leon’s view in a flurry of yelling. He took a beat to appreciate the oddity of human nature, then slipped through the doorway and into the back room. 

When Elliot saw him, his head shot up, eyes impossibly large.

“Leon,” he forced out, as though the very act of speaking was painful. “Can you get me more Adderall? Please?” His voice was strained with desperation. It was clear that he was making an effort to maintain eye contact, as though it would strengthen his plea. His gaze was focused on Leon’s face, although his eyes couldn’t stop themselves from flickering away at times, as though they were coming up for air.

“I can’t do that, cuz,” said Leon. He shifted on his feet and took in Elliot’s state. He was obviously jittery, hands shaking where they gripped the legs of his jumpsuit. Somehow, his complexion had become even paler — he was almost translucent. The way he was hunching over himself didn’t hide the heightening pace of his breath, bordering on hyperventilation. His eyes were rimmed crimson and shadowed with deep, bruised bags. Beside him was a congealing puddle of vomit. Leon let out a frustrated puff of breath. “I told you, I ain’t gonna be your reaper. I also told you not to overdo it with the dosage. Can’t even imagine how much you must’ve been on. I knew I shouldn’t have even given you that shit in the first place. Come on.”

He held out a hand for Elliot to take. Elliot looked at the hand, obviously deliberating. He reached up, hesitant, using his other hand to shakily push himself up. His legs buckled and failed him, but Leon dipped down with lightning-fast reflexes to pull him up onto his feet. Weak and dizzy, Elliot fell forward into Leon’s arms like a dead weight. His hands fisted fearfully into the back of Leon’s jumpsuit, as though he was afraid to fall. This close, Leon could feel the shudders wracking his body, the unnaturally high temperature he was running. 

“Let’s get you out of here, cuz,” he said. He grabbed a sheet to mop up the vomit and hide in one of the laundry baskets outside. “Get you into bed.”

 

* * *

 

Elliot let out a choked grunt as he hit the thin mattress of his bed, feeling it creak in protest beneath him. His skin felt taught and warm, hot and sticky with sweat as his system fought against his raging fever. Clumsy, uncoordinated fingers fumbled with the buttons on the front of his jumpsuit, trembling with panic. The fabric felt like sandpaper on his nerves, and _he couldn’t get it off_. He couldn’t undo the buttons and he couldn’t concentrate and he couldn’t _breathe_.

“Hey.” Big, heavy hands enveloped his own. They were cool and comforting. The pressure was soothing, grounding, and it suddenly became easier to breathe. Leon was there with him. Elliot allowed his head to drop against Leon’s shoulder as his friend undid the buttons that had caused him so much stress with ease. “Calm down, man. I got you.”

Once he was out of the confines of his ugly jumpsuit, Elliot slipped under the sheets. He curled up on his side, red-tinged eyes fixated on Leon’s hands. Noticing, Leon reached towards Elliot’s forehead to check his temperature, then hesitated and left his hand to hover in the air.

“This alright?”

Elliot tipped his head forward in assent. The cool palm of Leon’s hand pressed down, and Elliot’s eyes fell closed. For the first time in a long time, he felt his face relax slightly. The tension coiled in his jaw lessened and the furrow of his brow smoothed out a little bit.

He felt like a kid again, being tucked into bed by his dad when he was feeling sick. He remembered how he used to hide his sniffles and fevers when he was little, pretending to feel fine until he was shivering and weak and sent home from school. He remembered his mother’s rage whenever she arrived to pick him up. She was obsessed with how others saw her, and so Elliot was forced to watch her paste that excessively wide grin across her face for the teachers as he melted into the plastic chairs. It never fooled him. Her grip on his arm was always too tight to bring comfort.

When they reached their home, she would yell. The noise would bounce between his temples inside of his already pounding head. Afterwards, he’d stay under the covers and silently take note of his fresh bruises and burns so that he’d know which shirts to wear the next day when he needed to conceal them. Then he’d cry.

A flurry of voices suddenly penetrated his mind, and he cracked his crusted eyes open. He must have drifted off at some stage, because Hot Carla was in his cell. She was leaning against the wall, arms folded and eyes steadily watching Leon, who was still crouched beside Elliot’s bed.

“How’d you distract everyone, anyways?” asked Leon. “Sounded like a war was breaking out down there.”

“I picked a fight with that guy who’s been stealing my makeup,” she said with a proud smirk. “He had it coming. It was pretty satisfying, actually.” 

“You win?”

“Of course.”

The two of them let out quiet puffs of laughter, as though trying not to disturb Elliot. After a beat of silence, Carla stood up a bit straighter. Her gaze sharpened.

“You know what he was taking?”

“Uh,” Leon gave a lopsided shrug. “Adderall. He just took too much, I guess.” His eyes slid to the floor.

“And you wouldn’t happen to know where he got that Adderall?” Her voice was cutting now. The accusation was undeniable. Leon shifted uncomfortably, wilting under her unwavering stare. “Seriously, Leon? Do you really think that _this_ is what he needs right now?” 

Leon’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. His face twisted with regret. “I just wanted to help him somehow. I didn’t know it would go this far.”

Before Carla could fire back a retort, Elliot cut in. “It’s not his fault. I was the one who asked for the Adderall.” He shakily pushed himself up on his elbows. He took in a deep breath that scratched his insides and raised his eyes to meet hers, and then Leon’s. “Thank you for helping me.” 

His voice was croaky and raw, but he felt the need to communicate his gratitude to them. It had been a long time since he’d been treated so kindly, and the thought hurt. The last time that he had gone through morphine withdrawals, the overwhelming loneliness he had experienced in that empty room was crushing. The contrast between that moment and this one caused his eyes to become glassy, and they finally dropped to the sheets pooled around his waist.

Carla and Leon exchanged glances silently, until Carla sighed with exasperation and moved to the other side of Elliot’s bed. “You feeling better?”

Elliot gave a minuscule nod.

“Good,” she bit out. “Don’t do that shit again. Or else. Nearly scared me half to death.” It was more of a confession than a threat. She gently pushed him back down onto his pillow. He went without protest, and she was both reassured and concerned by his compliance. At least he wasn’t flinching at her every move anymore. “Now get some rest.”

Rather than replying, Elliot felt sleep tugging insistently at the edges of his consciousness and he slipped silently back into sleep. This time, his dreams were a swirl of pancakes and Seinfeld and cool hands on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first time writing fanfiction, so I hope you enjoyed it.


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